


Ascension

by sattsuma



Category: Original Work
Genre: Forced Orgasm, High Priest noncons Prince Reluctant to Have Ritual Coronation Sex - Freeform, M/M, Multiple Orgasms, Object Penetration, Raped in Public, Rapist Believes Rape Is For Victim's Own Good, Rapist Praises Victim, Unwilling Arousal
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2019-06-29
Updated: 2019-06-29
Packaged: 2020-05-30 21:10:19
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: Rape/Non-Con
Chapters: 1
Words: 4,632
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/19411468
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/sattsuma/pseuds/sattsuma
Summary: One last ritual awaits before Prince Micah can take the throne.  Altan will see that it is done properly, no matter what.





	Ascension

**Author's Note:**

  * For [fishnet](https://archiveofourown.org/users/fishnet/gifts).



> Contains rapist pov and...not exactly victim-blaming, but rapist who absolutely doesn't think he's doing anything wrong. (Also a bunch of extremely random fantasy religion stuff.) 
> 
> Thanks for the fun request, fishnet, hope this is up your alley. :)

The central room of the Green Lord’s temple had been a beautiful place to Altan for as long as he could remember, but tonight it seemed more splendid than ever. Altan and the other priests had worked hard for days to make sure that it was spotlessly clean, that the lamps and flowers arranged along the walls were in exactly the correct positions and the incense was smoldering in precisely the correct amounts.

Now, as Altan entered the temple on the most important evening of his life, the light from the lamps sent quivering shadows over the Green Lord’s statue at one end of the room, and over the large stone altar a short distance before it. Altan felt his heart beat a little faster at the sight of it.

In the center of it all was Micah, son of Macarion, first of his name. The grand statue of the Green Lord had been constructed with its arms stretched forward, embracing all, and Micah’s arms had been suspended cleverly from the statue’s own. There was enough slack so that the young man might flex his arms, or take a step in one direction or another, but it was obvious even at a distance that he could move no more than that, let alone free himself. Micah wore a robe of thin, plain fabric, which had a hood that hung down over his face when he let his head droop as he was doing now. It covered him little besides that, but that was the point, of course. All were humble before the Green Lord. And Micah would not need the robe for much longer, anyway.

Altan bowed deeply. “My prince,” he said.

Micah flinched, and rocked back a step. Altan still could not see his face. Did the young man – the _prince,_ soon to be the _king_ , Altan was still embarrassingly unaccustomed to thinking of him with the proper title even now – hate Altan, for his current predicament and for what was to come next? Altan thought it unfortunately likely, even though Prince Micah had been only friendly and good-natured in the short time that they had spent together until now. He was well aware of what the prince thought of his own kingdom’s manner of coronation, the sacred ritual that joined the new ruler with the gods and ensured that his reign would be peaceful and prosperous.

It was unfortunate indeed that Micah’s older father and half-brother had both gone on to the Green Lord’s halls so tragically and suddenly, sending everyone scrambling to decide who would be next in line to rule. It was unfortunate that Micah had been raised in the lands of his mother’s people, among their traditions, and had scarcely considered the possibility of becoming king someday, let alone been taught what that role would involve.

Altan and the rest of the royal retinue that had gone to collect Micah had done their best to educate the new heir, but there was only so much that could be properly explained in such a short time. And Micah had been quite unhappy at even the briefest description of the coronation ritual, no matter how Altan had tried to make him see that it was a normal and necessary tradition.

But there was no more time to prepare or explain now. Micah would become king tonight, and so the ritual would be completed properly, no matter what.

Now, Altan approached Micah, until he was close enough that he could slide one hand beneath the hood and tilt the prince’s face upwards. Under normal circumstances he would never have dared to put his hands on one of royal blood so casually – but this was Altan’s domain, tonight in particular.

And ah, there was the reason why Micah had not yet spoken – a cloth had been tied tightly across the prince’s mouth, gagging him.

Altan’s gaze slid sideways to the lesser priests who stood at the ready a respectful distance away. All of them met his eyes with blank looks, but it was easy enough to understand their thinking. Of course there could be no risk taken that the prince might shout, or speak out of turn, and humiliate himself by his uncooperativeness any more than he already had.

Still… Altan had read of such measures being taken, for kings many generations past, but it would not reflect well on Micah – nor Altan – if such a thing was necessary. They could do a little better than that, surely.

He leaned in a little more, so that his words could be for Micah’s ears alone. “My prince,” he murmured, beginning to work one finger beneath the gag. “I will take this off now.” 

Micah’s eyes widened, and he started to speak – uselessly, of course, and Altan cut him off quickly.

“But you must be quiet. Everything has to happen as I explained to you before, do you remember?” He could tell from the unhappy look in Micah’s eye that the prince remembered well enough. “If you cannot do that… I do not want it to happen like that, but there can be no interruptions. Do you understand?”

He could not say whether Micah heard the sincerity in his voice, or whether he simply wished to avoid being gagged at all costs, but in the end Micah nodded, just barely. There was a bead of sweat upon his temple, and his brown eyes were wide and panicky. Altan found himself remembering for just a moment how his eyes had widened in just the same way on that day a few short weeks ago, when Altan had first told him of the ritual.

Altan quickly set about working at the knot that held the gag in place. He found it somewhat tighter than expected, inappropriate treatment for a prince even under the circumstances – he would have to have a word with the other priests, when this was all over. When he was able to tug the cloth away at last Micah grimaced, and shook his head as if to rid himself of the taste.

“…Didn’t say it would be like _this_ , “ Altan heard him say, his voice soft and unhappy.

Indeed, Altan knew from his studies that the ceremony often went much more smoothly, with kings of old fulfilling their roles willingly and well aware of the gravity of it all. But it was not any of the kings of old that Altan was charged with assisting today, only Micah, and they would have to do the best that they could. He hushed Micah once more and shoved the gag out of sight inside of his own robes, just as Second Priest Helmar rang the sacred bell.

Exactly as planned, the screens that kept the ceremony’s preparations hidden from view began to move, pulled aside by a pair of lesser priests. Altan felt his heart begin to pound once more, and he saw Micah move restlessly out of the corner of his eye.

They could see the witnesses now, an assembly of the most important nobles and royal advisors of the land, as well some number of common folk who had been granted the chance to watch this crucial, sacred act through some kind of merit or luck. All of them with their eyes on Altan and Micah now – no, as the hum of murmuring voices fell across the crowd, Altan realized that everyone was surely looking only at Micah. At least the prince made a splendid, stirring sight, prepared and waiting before the Green Lord’s statue, despite the regrettable restraints. Altan had been too young to have the chance to witness the last king’s coronation, let alone assist in any way, but he was sure that Micah could measure up to any of his predecessors.

Altan took a step back, turned so that he could face the holy statue and Micah before it, and bowed deeply, just as he did every dawn before leading the day’s prayers. “Lord of the wide fields and the deep forests,” he said loudly. “A new king has come before you, to guard your lands wisely. Will you watch over him and guide him?” 

Behind him, he heard the witnesses and the other priests repeat the same question in their turn.

He moved towards Micah once more, and laid both hands on the prince’s robe. Micah stared back at him. His body was shaking, enough that Altan could not only feel but see it.

Even though he knew what must be done, Altan’s heart ached to see the young prince so frightened, so uncomprehending of the ritual’s beauty and importance. “Easy, my prince,” he dared murmur, even though it was not part of the ceremony.

Before Micah could be tempted to say something in reply, Altan raised his voice once more. “He offers you both his heart, and his body.“ He undid Micah’s robe in one quick movement, baring the prince in his nakedness from his throat all the way down to his long legs. Micah flinched, and the ropes binding him to the Green Lord’s statue were pulled taunt.

Micah’s body had been cleansed thoroughly in the sacred manner, and in the dim light of the lamps the oils his body had been anointed with glistened. A faint, appreciative murmur rose once more from the crowd of witnesses, even though speaking out of turn was forbidden now. 

He let both hands ghost down over Micah’s sides and hips, the better to show the witnesses, and the Green Lord in his heavenly kingdom, what was being offered. This time, when the prince squirmed uneasily beneath his touch, Altan was more than a little sure that he saw Micah’s cock twitch. _Very good_. He took the liberty of giving Micah’s sides a reassuring pat, just barely.

“He offers you his seed and hopes for yours in return, so that the kingdom may be blessed and fruitful. Will you accept, o Lord?”

 _“Will you accept?”_ the others echoed, save for Micah, whose lips were pressed tightly closed. 

“Bring out the Lord’s Blessing,” Second Priest Helmar intoned, and the next part of the ceremony began.

Altan did not turn his head to look as two acolytes came forward, bearing the sacred treasure on a tray between them – even though this was his first time to carry out the ritual, he should not act like it – but Micah did. Whoever had tied his arms had done a very good job indeed, Altan reflected.

“I – “ Micah could no longer hold himself back from speaking, either, and his voice was tight and desperate. “I don’t want to –“

Poor Micah, to be so frightened. It was not the way that this should have been done at all – and yet it would have to be done, all the same. Altan steeled himself. “ _Silence_ , my prince,” he hissed. “Or you know what I will have to do.”

The Lord’s Blessing was not much to look at, perhaps, but Altan thought that he could sense a kind of holy energy from it all the same. It was bronze, aged but finely polished, fashioned in some time long past to be the rough shape and size of a man’s organ – something very similar might have a much cruder name, and cruder uses, but the Blessing was an integral part of the coronation ritual. It had been cleaned and oiled just as meticulously as Micah’s body had been before the ceremony began, and seemed to glisten in just the same way.

Altan accepted it, feeling the weight of it in his hands – his god’s blessing, the source of his strength and goodness. It was wonderful, no matter what else might be wanting about this ceremony.

“Altan!” Micah whispered sharply as Altan moved behind him once more, stepping into the embrace of the Green Lord’s statue. The prince tried to step away, until the ropes around his wrists were pulled tight. Altan followed him. “D-don’t!”

It was a terrible offense to ignore an order from his king…but Micah was not king, not yet. Nor would he ever be, if Altan did not do this. “He humbly accepts the blessing of your body within him, o Lord,” he announced. Micah had already moved as much as he was able, and it was easy to wrap one steadying arm around the prince’s belly and nudge his shaking legs a little further apart.

Micah’s whole body was so tense, as if he was a statue himself. “A deep breath, my prince.” Altan urged him quietly, before brushing Micah’s open robe aside and guiding the Blessing forward.

As it slid inside of him – easily, to Altan’s faint relief even though he should not have expected anything less – Micah’s body sagged, and he let out a moan loud enough to momentarily startle even Altan. When the sound had faded, Altan could hear many of the witnesses muttering amongst themselves yet again. They sounded approving.

The Blessing was wider at the base, so that Altan could move it back and forth comfortably, made easier still by how the prince had been prepared to accept it. (Altan did not allow himself to give the details of that much consideration, not now when the task at hand required his utmost concentration.) Before them, the priests and the other witnesses had begun to chant, to entreat the Green Lord once more for prosperity and safety and all manner of other things. Micah had stopped trying to resist, stopped trying to speak. When Altan turned his attention to Micah’s face after some time, he saw that the prince’s face was flushed, and he was biting down hard on his lip. Dropping his gaze, he found that the prince’s cock had grown hard so quickly that Altan had not even noticed it.

Satisfaction and pride made Altan’s chest swell. He had read that kings-to-be found the Blessing to be pleasurable, but reading about it and seeing it happen before him were two very different things. “ _There_ ,” he urged Micah quietly. It was still not quite appropriate for him to speak, but he was quite sure that none of the others were paying much attention to him now, and Micah had well earned his praise. “You can do it, see? It is what you were born to do, my prince.”

A whine slipped from between Micah’s lips, too quiet for anyone but Altan and the Green Lord himself to hear. Micah’s hips had begun to move in slow, unsteady jerks, as if he could not decide whether he meant to move away from the holy manhood thrusting inside of him or towards it.

“You don’t have to hold back,” Altan coaxed. Perhaps he had not been clear enough in his earlier explanations – well, there would be no better time to explain it than now. “You can – you can make noise now, if you want. It is allowed.” It was unexpectedly hard to string the words together, let alone to get them out in an appropriately formal tone. _Concentrate_ , he chided himself. 

When Micah continued to bite at his lip, Altan applied just a little more force with his next stroke of the Blessing. Micah cried out once more, the sound just as satisfying as when he had first been entered, and in the next moment Altan felt something warm spatter across the arm still wrapped loosely around Micah's waist.

For all of his preparations, the hours studying the records of kings past and rehearsing each step and word with his fellow priests, it took Altan several seconds to realize what had just happened. He had been prepared to guide the Blessing inside of Micah for some time longer, to stroke at Micah’s sides and cock and to do all the other things that might be necessary to help a king-to-be show his appreciation of the Green Lord’s generosity. It was only as the witnesses murmured amongst themselves and the prince’s seed began to cool on his skin that he came to his senses.

“Very good, my prince,” he whispered to Micah. He did not remove the Blessing, nor pause in its movements – there was a way in which everything must be done, no matter what the circumstances - but he did his best to keep his movements steady and as slow as could be considered appropriate.

It was unusual for a future king to spend so early in the ceremony, but there was no shame in it. Quite the contrary – all assembled would see how Micah was young and vigorous, and readily accepting of the Green Lord’s gifts. In any case, however, there were still several rounds of prayers that would have to be completed before this part of the ceremony could end. 

By the time the others had fallen silent, Altan’s wrist was close to aching, and Micah trembled with each stroke as if he were being jabbed with a hot iron, though the sounds that worked their way through his lips hinted at something richer than simple pain. Over the prince’s shoulder, Altan had glimpsed more than a few of the witnesses shifting in their seats.

At last, even Second Priest Helmar’s voice had faded, and it was time for Altan to withdraw. It was not until the Lord’s Blessing slid free and Altan was stepping back from the heat of Micah’s body that he realized how natural, even pleasant, the intimacy that he had been allowed to share with his god and his future king had become.

Once again, though, there was no time to be lost in thought. The same pair of acolytes from before hurried forward to take the Blessing from him, while others carefully wiped away Micah’s seed from Altan’s arm and the prince’s own belly with specially prepared cloths which would be burned in the temple’s central fire before the night was over. 

When that was done, yet another priest began to loosen the ties binding Micah’s wrists, working with a level of deftness and confidence that suggested that it was he who had tied the knots in the first place. Altan reminded himself to commend him later. But there was no time now to dwell on that, either. Micah had been moved to lie on his back on the altar. The prince’s head lolled to one side, his dark hair pressed messily against the unforgiving stone surface. His eyes were half-closed, and his lips parted just slightly, shiny and wet. Altan thought, once again, what an inspiring sight he made. Micah was truly the one meant to be king, no matter what hesitations the prince himself might have. The Green Lord could not possibly receive anyone better than him.

One of the other priests stepped quietly to Altan, and in another moment he could feel the ties of his own robes being undone. Before him on the altar, Micah’s flimsy robe had been fully removed as well. It was a warm night, but Altan had to use all his self-control to keep from shivering. His heart was pounding inside his chest as if the Green Lord’s own fist was squeezing at it.

“…The prince is ready to accept your seed in return, Lord,” Second Priest Helmar was announcing. Helmar’s voice had always been loud enough to be heard over even the most rowdy crowds of worshippers, yet now Altan hardly heard him. “Will you let your humble servant Altan the Knowing, First Priest of your first temple, act in your place and bestow your gift upon him?”

 _“Will you?”_ the crowd echoed. It could have been Altan’s imagination, but he thought their entreaties sounded somewhat more energetic now than they had when the ceremony had first begun.

As he stepped towards the altar, Micah began to stir again. He tried to move his arms, found them tied above his head to the altar now – the priest who was skilled with knots had done his work again - and then lifted his head, staring at Altan with bleary confusion on his face. The stimulation he had endured after finding his release so early had left him already hard once more, another pleasing turn of events.

Altan had not mentioned this part to Micah before, not even during his earliest attempts at a patient, thorough explanation. The prince had been apprehensive enough as it was. Better to do the deed quickly now, when Micah’s body was limp and accepting and his mind was overwhelmed by the extent of the Green Lord’s generosity. 

“Altan?” Micah was still talking too much, still addressing Altan much too informally. But the prince’s voice was so quiet, too quiet for anyone but Altan to hear, so perhaps it was not so bad – oh, too quiet for anyone but Altan and the Green Lord to hear, of course. Altan’s focus was wandering yet again.

The stone of the altar was hard against his hips, but the height was just right, even though Altan had not been able to practice this part in advance. “Shh,” he told Micah softly. “There is only a little bit more, my prince. Lie still.” Micah’s legs hung limp and awkward over the side of the altar. Altan grasped them by the ankles – he could not quite believe that this was real, no matter how thoroughly he had prepared for this moment in his mind – and pushed up as gently as he could, until Micah’s legs were bent and pressed loosely against his chest.

It had been this moment that had worried Altan the most, in the past. No matter which holy texts or historical records he studied, he had not quite understood just _how_ the priest acting as the Green Lord’s proxy could be guaranteed to be ready to carry out his responsibilities when the time came. But now he saw how foolish those worries had been - Altan was not sure if he had ever been more aroused in his life. But of course the Green Lord would not let him fail, especially not with such a perfect king-to-be as Micah.

When he entered Micah, the prince’s body seemed to accept him even more smoothly than it had the Lord’s Blessing a short time earlier. Micah’s back arched, and he let out another tight, high-pitched groan, his eyes squeezed shut. One of the witnesses, seated close enough to the front to be heard, made a comment that was not solemn or pious at all, but Altan could only barely notice the impropriety, not when everything else was so perfect, when Micah felt so perfect around him.

He began to move, slowly at first and then faster and faster, not caring how the edge of the altar pressed at his hips and thighs. Each thrust forwards wrung a new sound from Micah’s lips, and it spurred Altan on all the more.

“…Altan?” he heard Micah mumble yet again. “Alta- _aah!”_

The sound of his own name breaking off into a cry on his prince’s lips should _not_ have made Altan’s cock harder still, not at such a crucial, sacred moment when Altan’s body was merely a tool to join the world of the gods with the world of mortals. He would need to pray for forgiveness for his weakness and lechery, when all this was over. But for now –

He pushed Micah’s legs up higher still on the next thrust – Micah cried out again, the sound echoing across the temple’s high ceiling – and dared to let one of his hands slip down between them. Micah’s cock seemed almost painfully hot in Altan’s hand, though the prince flinched as Altan touched him, his brow furrowing. “N-no…”

Was Micah hesitant still, even after he had performed beyond Altan’s expectations, shown gods and mortals alike how ready he was to fulfill his role as king? Altan ran his thumb slowly up and down Micah’s length, mesmerized by the reactions that passed across the prince’s face. Micah’s cock, too, reacted very well indeed.

“ _Altan_.” Was it some kind of test sent by the gods, that Micah would not stop saying his name with such desperation? It made it fiercely difficult for Altan to reflect on the holiness of what they were doing. “Altan, s – stop, I _can’t…”_

“A little more,” Altan interrupted him, his voice hoarse even to his own ears. “You are – you are doing _so well_ , my prince, just let me help you-“

“Don’t _touch_ me!” Had Micah spoken too loud? Would any of the witnesses whisper later about how their new king had resisted the sacred ritual? Altan found that he did not care, not now. “It – it feels…” The prince’s words trailed off again into yet another wordless moan as Altan’s thumb brushed across the head of his cock.

“Feel it, my prince,” Altan urged him. “I will not – The Green Lord will not harm you, I swear it. You need only – “ Now it was Altan’s turn to forget how to speak.

Even now, caught up in the feeling of Micah tight around him and the sight of Micah beneath him, Altan could sense that he would not last much longer. He should clear his mind, keep his thoughts firmly on his prayers for the prosperity of the kingdom as the Green Lord made use of him to bestow his gift upon Micah. Instead, his attention was fully on Micah, and the way that he twitched and bit at his lip as Altan continued to touch him. It was not necessary for a king-to-be to offer his seed yet again during this part of the ceremony, but Micah had spent so easily once already, had done so well – he could manage a little more, surely? All of the others would see beyond a doubt what an exceptional king he would be, and how well Altan had guided him.

“Again, my prince.” It was lucky that Altan’s breath had grown so uneven – had he been capable of raising his voice above a rough whisper now, he surely would not have been able to keep himself from doing so. “You are – _oh_ – so perfect, show me, just one more time-!”

 _It is not for_ you _that this is happening_ , some dry part of his mind scolded, very distantly, but in the next moment Micah’s seed was spilling once more across Altan’s hand, and then Altan’s own body was seizing up as well, overflowing with an ecstasy more radiant than anything he had ever known, even in the most feverish heights of prayer.

When it was over, the other priests hastened to clean Altan and Micah, and to dress Altan once more. Second Priest Helmar was speaking again, leading the well-practiced prayers that would close the ceremony, but Altan paid no attention to it. Everything had gone splendidly, despite how uncertain things had seemed right up until the moment the ceremony had begun. Micah had fulfilled his role quite thoroughly – there could be no disputing his place on the throne now, not even for those who had been against him in the beginning.

Altan had played his own role well too, and seen to it that everything had happened as it should. Even the decision to have Micah bound during the ceremony, as heavily as it had weighed on his conscience at the time, had worked out quite well in the end. 

At the altar, Micah’s arms had been untied at last. One priest was helping him sit up, telling him something quietly, but Micah did not seem to be listening. His eyes were still only on Altan, wide and uncertain and still dazed by the enormity of what had just been bestowed upon him.

Once again, Altan knew exactly what he had to do next. His body moved once again into a deep bow almost on its own, as if the Green Lord himself pressed at his back. “My king,” he said.


End file.
